The Berlin Wall
by NightlySnow
Summary: The initial separation of East and West Germany and a glimpse into the years that follow. Changes are wrought, but can they be reversed? Prussia and Germany being brothers and enduring through decades of separation, terror, and the will to drive on.


Yeah, yeah, I know I just updated about four stories in two days, but this idea was gnawing at me for a good fifteen minutes, and I had to write it before it flitted away from me.

Incidentally, I totally recommend this super awesome Youtube video called _Complete History of the Soviet Union, Arranged to the Melody of Tetris. _It is a beautiful thing, with lovely information and awesome things. xD Horrible description, just go watch it and you'll see!

Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, nor the ideas portrayed in this fic._

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**The Berlin Wall**

_"__Incredible change happens in your life when you decide to take control of what you do have power over instead of craving control over what you don't."_

**―****Steve Mariboli,****_Life, the Truth, and Being Free_**

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Ludwig was separated from his brother in May of 1945, with the end of World War Two in Europe. In the West, Democracy made her home, decking it in all the lavish accoutrements that came with free enterprise, citizen participation in the government, and a best-man-always-comes-out-on-top world.

Gilbert was besieged by the strict, commanding ways of Communism. The governmental system swept swiftly in, giving women a voice over night, and effectively wiping out the eccentricities that had bled from Hilter. But she had a stiff code about her, a law that was to be upheld no matter the cost. Russia made his home in West Germany, the once grand country of Prussia. He brought in a bitter coldness. There was less animation on the streets; work and toil was the order of the day. Prussia put his head down, feeling his citizen's turmoil and confusion as his own.

But things settled down, the years dragged on. Prussia accepted his new status quickly, finding that there was no fight left in him to try to rebel against the new order; World War Two shamed him, haunting him with the ghosts of the men he'd killed; be they the previously persecuted Jews or the once-revered _Panzer_ fighters. He didn't trust himself anymore.

Ludwig had an easier time accepting his new role. It was freeing, now, to be out from beneath Hitler's mighty thumb. The Democratic nations looked at him with unease, however, not trusting that he wouldn't blow into something bigger and even more monstrous than the previous Nazi regime had been.

Germany couldn't blame them. Like his brother, he was haunted, waking up at night in cold sweats, the images of the emaciated Concentration camp victims burnt into the backs of his eyelids. So many had died because of _him, _because of _his nation, his leader. _His systematic, clean soldier's efficiency was still there, but the traces of depression existed. Shifting into the forced smiles, and scrawling along the pale underside of a soft wrist.

Eventually, Germany regrouped. Eventually, though the guilt would never stop plaguing him, he began to find some self-worth again. His people were happy, dancing, free. They weren't turning blind eyes to the horrors that they'd largely ignored during the war, the old Allies made sure of that. Efforts were made to make sure that past atrocities would never make it back to the surface. Ludwig began to laugh again, beer pints finding their way into his hands once more, bright colors of festivities hanging from windows. Very little of the German flag was seen, but that was okay. Ludwig was confident that he would one day be able to look at the familiar striped emblem and not have to turn away with scarred and wrecked bodies hanging on the flag pole.

He was sure that he would one day be able to be proud of himself, and his people, again.

Before the wall was put up, Prussia would sometimes make his way over to the East for a bit of reunion with his younger brother. He was able to do this because of the small amount of his people trickling across the border between East and West Germany. But unlike his citizens, Prussia wasn't able to stay. The main body of his former land was in Russia's grasp.

But he did get to see Ludwig slowly find himself again. He got to see West, as he was now called, lift his weary head and finally look towards the sun. And as his brother changed for the better, Prussia found that he seemed to be stream rolling for the worst. He'd gone through the same shame and self-disgust that West had suffered, but his wasn't stopping. He wasn't used to the strict ways of Communism, the blacks and the whites and the grays; the mandated housing and the term 'comrade.' He wasn't comfortable with equality, finding it awfully ironic that everyone was equal, accept for the government officials and those unlucky souls that they didn't like.

He voiced this to Russia one day, and the nation seemed to lose himself in the past for a moment, his normally smiling eyes dipping into something that was a little more somber. "Things change, da?" said the tall man, wrapped up in his beige coat with the ever-present whiter scarf slung about his neck.

Prussia doubted that he would be able to count the number of times he'd wanted to strangle Russia with that scarf, not including the hell he'd put him through during World War Two.

The last time East saw West was a few days before the barbed wire was put in place.

Germany was seated at a café that was modeled after French culture waiting for his brother. Prussia was unnaturally late, and it was making the taller Germanic nation angry. Spelling out a terse 'danke.' To the waiter who delivered his coffee and slice of black forest cake. Ludwig probably wouldn't eat it, but he knew that Gilbert would scarf it down for him. Sipping at his coffee and glaring dagger at the cup that was waiting patiently for Prussia on the other side of the table, Ludwig's foot began to tap.

He was about to get up and just go home when he saw Gilbert's form bustling through the crowds, gray as a wraith and rushed.

"_Es tut mir leid_!" he gasped, sliding into the seat, his eyes panicked and flustered. It was so unlike Prussia that it had Germany sliding slowly back down into his seat.

"There's no need to apologize," he found himself saying, even though both knew that there was a very severe need to do it. Ludwig had forgotten how much his brother had changed, it had been a couple of years since he'd last seen him after all.

Gilbert had gotten skinnier, by a lot too. His muscles were less obvious, his skin paler, if that was even possible, and eyes a duller red. Food was, evidently, not abundant over in the East.

When the white-haired boy's eyes lit upon the slice of cake, Ludwig slid it forward, watching with concern as Gilbert fell on it like a wolf does a rabbit. That wasn't natural, or healthy, Ludwig was sure. But he wasn't going to stop his brother from eating, not wanting to kick the puppy anymore than it already had been.

Done with the slice in a rapid minute, Gilbert sat back, as naturally as he could, and sipped blithely at his coffee.

"Why were you late?"

The coffee cup clicked back on the saucer it had rested upon. "Work. Some of us actually have to work for our bread, West," said Prussia, though there was a lack of biting bitterness in his words; not what Germany was expecting. It looked like Russia could very well have broken his brother's spirit.

Gilbert studied him a moment, those old red eyes holding centuries of knowledge. "Don't feel sorry for me, Ludwig, that's disgusting," he said after enough analyzing. "I'll be fine, I'm the awesome Prussia, remember?" he laughed, though there was more of a waver in his voice, a doubt that had never before been there.

Ludwig pretended not to notice it, smiling and chuckling. "Of course, how could I forget?"

They talked then about silly little things, how they were doing, their people, foods and money, imports and exports, relations with other countries. On the last few, Ludwig was the only one talking. Gilbert had only been able to talk to Germany and Russia since the end of World War Two. He didn't trade with any other nations, didn't let foreign imports into his country, and didn't let any exports out.

Neither of the two brothers talked about what the future held.

When both were saying goodbye, Germany was finding that his older brother was being surprisingly affectionate. "Ich liebe dich, _bruder,_" and then he pulled Gilbert in for a hug, standing on his tiptoes to wrap his arms around his brother's shoulders and press a kiss to the crown of the younger's blond head.

He then let go and disappeared into the crowd, melting away with a skill that he hadn't formerly possessed, leaving a very confused, consternated, and concerned Germany behind.

Prussia knew what was coming. Russia had spoken about it when he'd arrived a couple of weeks before his annual visit. Something was up if Russia ever arrived in East Germany early. Gilbert knew that officials were angry with the 2.5 million East Germans who had fled over to the Democratic West. And he knew that they were going to start taking action against these moves.

It started with barbed wire, restricting East's previously easy access to West.

The last time he saw Ludwig was when the younger man was scanning hysterically about for his white hair. Civilians could still see one another on either side of the fence. When those slate blue eyes clapped on Gilbert, they held there, a terrible desperation echoing. Gilbert began to step back, feeling his chest beginning to heave, his throat clogging. Ludwig shook his head, _nein_ muttering from his lips a thousand times in a silent, twisted prayer. _Don't go._ But Gilbert ignored him, managing one dismal quirk of his lips before he tore his eyes away from his younger brother and melted away.

He dragged himself some yards back into his lands before collapsing on the cobblestone ground, his fingers scrabbling at the bricks, aching to rip them out of the Earth and throw them about, eager to bring pain and suffering to the people around him. He wanted blood, he wanted sweat. He wanted people to die.

But what he got was tears, what he got was his own tired, ragged form breaking down on that unforgiving ground, his body doubling over on the tops of his thighs, hands wrapping around his heaving stomach. His face bent to press his forehead into the ground, the tinier, gravelly rocks between the larger ones meshing into the pale skin of his forehead.

And there the once arrogant Prussia lay, hugging himself and mourning, feeling pain of thousands echo through him, amplifying his own depression ten fold.

By the time he picked himself up, nightfall was touching the streets, masking the angles and slopes of the buildings. Prussia picked himself up, making his way back over to the paved roads and slowly meandering through the streets to his home. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders crouched forward, head ducked and feet scuffing. He was out past curfew, but he didn't much care. If authorities shot him, he would just get right back up, suffering from the bullet wounds, but not dying. And maybe that pain would be a sort of sweet relief, snapping him back to who he was with the force of its hatred.

But he wasn't assuaged the entire way back, much to his bitter disappointment.

The wall dropped a couple of days after the barbed wire was put in place. It was a simple fixture at first, imposing, but not impossible to breach for those who were really intent on it.

And then they began to fortify it. Years past, guns were placed, dynamite was lain, trenches dug, enough explosives and machinery to recreate the unbreakable wall that Hitler had made against the English Channel.

Ludwig was in a state of paralysis when Gilbert turned away. Nein still hung on his lips, fruitless for all it had been worth.

And so Germany bowed its head and moved into the world of Democracy, nurturing relationships, keeping close with the Democratic nations that still technically controlled it. Ludwig was content, if tortured, knowing that he was okay; Gilbert was the one in a worse situation. Years rolled, festivities were thrown, Christmas celebrated, dinner parties with America, Great Britain, France, etc. etc. While Gilbert, previously the social butterfly, seceded into a forced isolationism, Ludwig blossomed. Germany was successful.

And Germany watched as nuclear war grew imminent, he watched as the world dipped into yet another cesspool of dynamite that would undoubtedly crackle and blow.

East just watched the world from his narrowed, controlled perspective, a wraith of a creature. Those red eyes still burned, hiding the simmering hatred, anger, wrath, muted in pain, acceptance, and exhaustion. He'd watch as desperate people were gunned summarily to the ground, no change to his now permanent facial expression of impassiveness. He learned to get along with Russia, could see the merit in the idea of Communism, in the idea of everyone being on the same level. But that didn't mean he liked it; he didn't enjoy the rations, the rations that seemed to keep getting smaller by the day; he didn't enjoy the military force; he didn't enjoy watching his people die in their desperation.

But he toiled on, his life now a constant schedule. Eat breakfast, go to work, come back from work, eat dinner, go to bed. And repeat. There was no glitter or shine to it until he heard an illegal record of one of England's controversial bands. The Beatles.

They fizzled life into him again. His eyes opened, his fingers reaching out to get more and more copies of their albums, illegal, poorly produced reprints. As the wall lengthened, and strengthened, Gilbert slowly emerged from the enclosure he'd shut himself in.

Their songs sang to him, breathed to him, he could feel their rhythm in his veins, their beat in his heart, their words in his mind. He was gaining a certain fire. When he started grasping at America's rock bands, listening to their jarring, angry lyrics, he found himself getting worked up.

He found a reason to revolt.

And so as tensions boiled over, as blood began to flow once more, and violence ran rampant. As guns cracked and screams intensified, Gilbert reveled with it. East bonded with the same people he'd so wanted to leave behind back in 1961.

Gases were deployed, but progress was made.

When the wall fell in 1989, it was to cheers of glee, relief; freedom. Prussia, or East rather, hung back, hidden in the shadow of a portion of wall still standing. He watched his people stream through into the dazzling lights of the world, no longer in their altered environment. Gilbert was sporting bandages, a cast, a pistol at his hip. But he was _fucking_ free.

Once the initial hubbub died down, which took a good few hours at least, Prussia used the rubble of the hole that had been blasted through the wall to climb to the top of it, sitting with his feet slung over to the west, his face tilted in the flawed hum of Democracy that was chattering down bellow.

No governmental system would every really work. He knew that at least a bit of Communist propaganda had been right; Democracy was a dog-eat-dog world. Not every man got to start out on equal footing. But everyone could achieve if they worked for it. Race was a horrible issue, though he wouldn't know just how bad it had been in America until he rejoined the world once more. Sexuality was still making itself known, croppings of gay rights and transgender interests would pop up in the future.

But in that moment, with his face bathed in the glow of a somehow brighter sun, Gilbert felt that the world was perfect.

"Prussia," came a voice, sweetly familiar, out of the hubbub below, using the name that was no longer Prussia's own.

"Ludwig," responded the elder, looking down at the precarious drop below, seeing his brother's face for the first time in twenty eight years.

Ludwig was smiling.

Filtering back into the goings on of the real world was difficult. East was confused, scared, and so far from his former self they might as well have been two different people.

The first time he saw Hungary, he was smacked with a kiss that held years of endless affection.

"You can never disappear like that again!" snapped Elizaveta once she pulled away, tears of an unidentifiable type in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," murmured Gilbert, confused and really unsure of what to do.

"And you aren't supposed to apologize," murmured Eliza then, her tone dropping octaves into something that resembled a clogged voice.

And thus, 'things change.'

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I know, this point of view is so incredibly biased towards Democracy that it probably makes people want to throw up. But I didn't mean offense. I understand that Communism has its values, I even talked about them a bit in this fic. I think it's nice in theory, but I can't support it. And being American, it would practically be a crime to do so anyway.

Well, I hope all of you guys enjoyed it, as excruciatingly boring as this one probably was.

Review, if you want to, don't review if you don't want to. Have a nice day! Or don't, if you don't want to.

Au revoir.


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